[20],
     
    
   
   
    
     
      The
      Thought
      of
      Some
      Place
      Warm
      and
      Two
      Steps
      More
     
    
   
   
    
     
      I
      hope
      you
      dressed
      warmly
      —
      it’s
      cold
      out
      there,
      honey.
      The
      kind
      of
      indifferent,
     
     
      absolute
      cold
      that
      freezes
      the
      snot
      inside
      your
      nose,
      hardens
      your
      tears,
      then
      clos-
     
     
      es
      your
      eyes.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Even
      the
      most
      persistently
      raucous
      and
      disloyal
      mutts
      have
      returned
      home,
      their
     
     
      tails
      withdrawn
      between
      their
      legs,
      looking
      for
      a
      fireplace,
      a
      radiator,
      a
      rug.
     
     
      They’ve
      given
      up
      the
      chase
      —
      no
      bitches,
      no
      cars.
      No
      howling
      at
      a
      moon
      that’s
      lost
     
     
      itself
      in
      a
      cloudy
      sky,
      and
      may
      not
      be
      coming
      back.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Only
      the
      truly
      hardened
      and
      needy
      are
      out
      thieving
      tonight,
      sifting
      through
     
     
      unlocked
      cars
      under
      the
      cover
      of
      ice
      and
      darkness,
      taking
      advantage
      of
      a
      populace
     
     
      under
      blanket,
      keeping
      its
      distance
      from
      the
      chill-seeping
      windows.
      Are
      you
      so
     
     
      brave,
      honey?
      So
      unfeeling?
     
    
   
   
    
     
      All
      but
      the
      most
      foul-weather
      smokers
      have
      resigned
      themselves
      to
      a
      continued
     
     
      existence
      in
      the
      non-smoking
      indoors
      —
      their
      porches,
      balconies,
      backyards
      and
     
     
      driveways
      have
      been
      claimed
      by
      the
      cold.
      They
      bump
      and
      stomp
      and
      curse
      and
     
     
      sneak
      quick
      cigarettes
      in
      the
      bathroom,
      trapped
      by
      the
      heartless
      cold
      into
      an
      imi-
     
     
      tation
      of
      willpower.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      This
      old
      house
      may
      creak,
      stretch
      and
      pop,
      feeling
      the
      weather
      in
      its
      boards
      and
     
     
      beams
      like
      an
      amateur
      meteorologist,
      a
      prognosticating
      arthritic.
      The
      vigilant
      hair-
     
     
      dryer
      wielding
      landlord,
      stalking
      the
      house
      in
      a
      fit
      of
      faucet-testing
      might
      fail,
      and
     
     
      let
      the
      pipes
      freeze
      and
      snap.
      But
      the
      streets
      are
      so
      cold,
      there
      are
      no
      chances
      there,
     
     
      honey,
      with
      such
      a
      long,
      long
      walk
      home.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      So
      few
      are
      the
      cabbies
      who’ll
      open
      their
      doors
      to
      the
      frigid
      world
      and
      its
      frozen
     
     
      fares,
      who
      chatter
      through
      teeth
      like
      castanets
      —
      “‘t-t-t-take
      m-me
      t-t-to
      the
      airp-p-
     
     
      ort.”
      —
      and
      you
      haven’t
      the
      money
      to
      find
      them.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      The
      homeless
      are
      committing
      crimes
      in
      a
      petty
      wave
      —
      willing
      to
      place
      themselves
     
     
      in
      the
      hands
      of
      a
      system
      that
      positioned
      them
      so
      expertly
      on
      the
      periphery,
      under-
     
     
      foot
      and
      shivering.
      Only
      the
      painfully
      stubborn,
      the
      resolutely
      reckless,
      could
     
     
      refuse
      a
      warm
      keeper
      tonight.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      There
      are
      people
      outside
      in
      the
      street
      screaming.
      They
      are
      laughing
      loudly,
      help-
     
     
      less
      with
      the
      thought
      of
      some
      place
      warm
      and
      two
      steps
      more.
      Then
      two
      steps
     
    
   
   
    
     
      more.
      You-mustn’t
      get
      mad
      at
      the
      cold,
      go
      mad
      with
      the
      cold,
      it’Il
      do
      you
      no
      good.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      It’s
      a
      long
      walk
      home.
      Maybe
      you
      should
      have
      thought
      of
      that,
      honey.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      —DMatthew
      Dorrell